


Tacit

by venvea



Category: Bandom, Hollywood Undead (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, Drinking, Drugs, Drunken Kissing, Falling In Love, Feelings Realization, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Relationship Study, Tour Bus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27497926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venvea/pseuds/venvea
Summary: The things Jorel says to Dylan thorough the years.And the things he never does.
Relationships: Dylan Alvarez | Funny Man & Jorel Decker | J-Dog, Dylan Alvarez | Funny Man/Jorel Decker | J-Dog, Implied Jorel Decker | J-Dog/Vanessa Decker
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	Tacit

**Author's Note:**

> i don't always write hu fanfiction, but when i do, it's funny-dog like we're in 2014.
> 
> a small warning for drugs and alcohol. but it's hu, what did you expect?

* * *

**Tacit (adjective)**

**/ˈtasɪt/**

Not expressed directly; implied without being directly stated; _unsaid_.

* * *

~~**“I think I could fall in love with you if you just gave me the chance.”** ~~

There's a million other things Jorel could be doing now that he's kind of back on solid ground, and seeing his family should probably be on top of his endless list, but he thinks he'd rather _die_. And he plans to put it off as long as he can, so he's here, instead, in one of those small clubs he's not even sure of the name of, tagged along with Aron and George who are doing the exact same thing as him after another small gig they played. 

Blurred colours. That’s what he’d reduced his world to; just pointless shapes in the dim light.

He's had two, maybe three (Four?) drinks too many, but it doesn't stop him from ordering another one, since the three of them are quite prepared to spend their entire checks on shitty beer, even if that means they won't eat for another two days. He gets handed his glass as soon as he hears Johnny's voice, the man trying to get his attention, so he lazily turns his head towards the sound drowned out by music, and he looks over, and he suddenly wishes he hadn't, because here, right next to George, stands another man. And the man is _pretty_ — he is drunk enough to admit that to himself — and it pisses him off for some reason he can't truly explain. And he's just wasted enough to be loud as hell, louder than normally, so that's exactly what he does.

“Nice sweater!” he shouts, and it's nonsense, absolute nonsense, and he's just being loud, making noise for the sake of it. It's such an ugly sweater though, and he's sure the guy knows it, and that, for him, is a good enough excuse to point it out instead of asking why the hell he's standing next to his bandmate. But the man practically ignores his comment, and as Johnny shoots him a judgemental glare, the boy just smiles at him in response and rises his hand to wave at him.

“I'm Dylan,” he says, and it just makes Jorel angrier, truly, because his smooth voice is even more attractive than his face, which J-Dog didn’t think was even possible, and he almost knocks the barstool over as he leans forward to listen to it closer. And the guy lifts his head, and he’s trying not to laugh, smiling, and _he’s really pretty_ , Jorel thinks, soft grin dazzling him for a moment, and so he _has to_ turn away, has to down the rest of his beer way too fast.

“Yeah, that's Dylan,” George says simply, holds Jorel's gaze, his expression saying nothing more than _I know you're shit-faced, but, for the love of god, at least try to act normal_. J-Dog gets the message; it's the same face every time, after all, but he doesn't quite process it. Johnny's hand is on Dylan's waist now, as if holding him in place so he doesn't run away, but he doesn't look like he would, still smiling at Jorel. “He's in the band now.”

“George, we've talked about this, we can't— can't just go around letting random people join the band, Jordon alone is one dumbass too many,” he slurs, even though he doesn't mean it, and Johnny knows he doesn't mean it. It's nonsense, really, and he's just being loud for the sake of it again. Because if every random person looked this pretty, he wouldn't think twice to let them join the band. But he's just wasted enough to be loud as hell. “This is a serious business! And I'm not a babysitter, he looks like he can't even drink legally!”

The guy laughs, nods towards Jorel at that one, and it flusters him for a moment, and then whatever train he was on with the _serious business_ is gone, and he can feel those dark brown eyes on him, feels like he has to shout something yet again, and Dylan is grinning and it's cute and pretty and it's infuriating and J-Dog takes a too long pause before George pats him on the arm and gently shoves Dylan into Jorel's direction. Then he's gone, just like that, probably to find Aron in the small crowd and tell him about the newest member too.

“Your friend is quite something, huh?” the boy asks, leans up against the bar, turns to the bartender to order a drink (Which is complete bullshit, because he looks like he's sixteen and there's no fucking way he's allowed to drink), and he’s grinning, doesn’t look the least bit upset, but _god, is he pretty,_ and Jorel can’t curb the warm feeling rising in his chest. And maybe it's the alcohol, but his voice gets caught in his throat and he can only force a small smile at Dylan in response. “You three were good tonight. The gig, I mean.”

“Shit, uh— I mean, y'know, like, we're— We're not—” he starts rambling, can’t even put a simple sentence together; maybe he shouldn't have drunk so much. And then the guy just starts laughing again, and it’s so _nice_ , it's the first thing that Jorel realizes, almost musical. But then he suddenly remembers how pretty Dylan is, and the observation gets tucked to the back of his mind. And they talk for way too long, until Dylan's drunk, too, until J-Dog's even drunker, until Aron and George leave the club, until the Mexican gets him rambling about the gangs, about his parents, about the reform school, until Dylan is telling him that _that’s bullshit,_ and _fuck his parents_. Then Jorel tells him that they are going to record something together, this month, week, tomorrow, as soon as the impending hangover clears.

“You got somewhere to stay the night?” Jorel asks as Dylan tries shifting off the too tall barstool, a while after he has said that he'd much rather _die_ than have his first interaction with his parents today be him drunkenly stumbling into the house, and the question stops the boy in his tracks.

“Uh— Well, no, not really” he mumbles, features frowning with it. “I’ll find somewhere, it’s okay,” he starts, and then he’s saying something, but the only thing J-Dog can process is how the cheap, shitty lighting of the bar frames Dylan, makes him look like some sort of angel.

He could say it, he thinks, _I could fall in love with you if you just gave me the chance_ , because, yeah, the guy is a complete stranger, but Dylan is really pretty and Jorel's just drunk enough to say stupid shit, something as stupid as that. And he can’t remember the last time someone was this nice to him, and that on top of the absurd amount he drank tonight — he’s going to be so sick tomorrow, he knows — is clouding his judgement, just enough to say it to a stranger, _I could fall in love with you_ , but before he can even think about trying to get the words out, Dylan is moving towards the exit, so he has to think fast.

**“You can crash at our place.”**

* * *

**SWAN SONGS.**

~~**“I can't afford to get too close to you, but I can't help it.“** ~~

Jorel's hands fly deftly over the keyboard, watching as his thoughts come to life on the transposing software he has on his old laptop, watching as it dots out rushed notes and rhythms that won’t even get a proper key signature until later. He’s on a roll, the melody drifting in his head so cleanly and clearly that he’s afraid he’ll lose it before he can even finish playing. One line turns into two, then three, then six, then he’s filled a whole three pages. Dylan just laughs, and then Jorel tells him that he should go home already, even though he doesn't mean it, but it seems like the right thing to say.

But Dylan doesn't go home, even when the others leave the studio to celebrate finishing their first album (Which is _dumb_ , because there's still a lot of work to be done, and the real celebration won't be held until the next week), and even when he says he's going to stay in the studio a little longer to polish off one last song. Funny stays with him, saying he's not really up to seeing drunk Johnny fighting everybody in the club anyway, and it's two in the morning now, and J-Dog's done with the song, and they're still sitting there.

“We can’t leave now, Jorel, it’s fucking pouring,” Dylan says suddenly, exasperated, while Jorel puts his keyboard into his old bag covered with band pins and patches, tries to think of the shortest way to get to the bus stop from their small studio. He stands there for a while, studying Funny's face while _This Love, This Hate_ 's last beats fade out. Funny Man's sitting criss cross in an uncomfortable leather chair, a red blanked draped over his shoulders and barely working headphones still in his hands.

He looks outside the window, and he doesn't really understand what's so bad about the situation. He likes the rain. It’s a little sad, like an aching for something or someone, but it’s never sharp. No, it’s a soft ache, really. It’s this gentle, tender ache that tugs at him once in a while. It turns the sky and the city and everything with color to darkness, and there’s a bitter pang of this lenient thrill, adrenaline each time a lightning strucks. He really doesn't mind the rain.

“Hey, hey, Jorel, you there?” Dylan starts again after a longer moment of being ignored, and J-Dog doesn't know how long he's been staring outside the window, but as he finally gets his keyboard packed, he lifts his gaze to meet Dylan's, and as soon as it does, he knows he’s going to cave. So he glances downwards once again.

“No, I'll be okay, you can stay if you want to— You have the keys, right? I’m just gonna catch a bus to my place or something, it's fine,” he says, and it’s a lie and they both know it, because _when has he ever willingly stayed with Aron for any longer than an hour,_ and _when has he ever taken a bus to his place_ , and so Dylan cuts him off with a huff, concern holding in his tone as he tries again.

“For god's sake, come on, Jorel,” and Jorel feezes halfway through pulling his bag over his shoulders to glance upwards, meet Dylan's gaze, proper this time. “It’s fucking pouring!” he states again, looking expectantly at J-Dog now that he is a captive audience, as if he doesn’t know, can’t hear the crash of the thunder echoing through the walls of the studio, can’t see the torrential downpour from outside the window. “If we try and go out there, we're gonna drown!”

Jorel wants to tell him he’s just being overly dramatic as always, that they'll be fine, but then another crash of thunder startles the younger man, makes him wince as light flashes through the room and illuminates his features, for a moment. Then he wants to tell him that he'll be okay, and that there's no need to be scared, but as he opens his mouth, he just laughs instead. “Are you trying to make me stay 'cause you're scared of the thunder, or do you just enjoy my company so much you can't stand being in here without me?“

“Oh, shut up, you know you're not gonna get far on that skateboard of yours,” Dylan answers gently as he sinks further into the leather seat, gives him a small smile, and Jorel's absolutely done for, any argument in his head completely crumbled, and he's sure that Dylan knows it as soon as the tinest smile quirks up the corners of J-Dog's lips. “Stay.”

The words are on the tip of Jorel's tongue — _I want to, but I can't afford to get too close to you,_ and he’s absolutely lost in Dylan's dark eyes, mind completely blank, and his mouth opens to say it, _I can't afford to, but I can't help it_ , and he really can't help it, truly, means it more and more the longer he gazes at Funny Man, feels his heart stuttering in his chest. And then the thunder crashes outside, jolts Jorel out of it in an instant.

**“Yeah— Yeah, fine. I’ll stay.”**

* * *

**DESPERATE MEASURES.**

~~**“I'd follow you anywhere if that meant I'd never lose you.”** ~~

“I can't do this anymore, Dyl” he murmurs, and the nickname is newfound, but it comes out easy as anything, like he’d been saying it for years now, and it’s almost as easy as Dylan's equally newfound nickname for him is on his ears. It's not _new,_ exactly, because many people before Funny Man have called him that, but none of them have said it in a way that made his heart beat faster, and none of them have said it in a way that made him smile so hard his cheeks hurt, and, which was the main reason, Jorel thought, _none of them were Dylan._

“You can, Jay,” he says softly, takes the old photos from Jorel easily, slides them to the other side of the counter. J-Dog doesn’t want to leave and Funny Man knows it, and he never thought he’d ever find a reason to do it, a real reason, but he’s eventually found it; Aron. And he’ll tell Dylan over and over that it’s just the band he wants to leave, nothing more, but it’s also him he's leaving, fucking Dylan Alvarez, truly, and all the life and warmth and friendship that comes with him, and the music is just like an added bonus, really.

“I could just... leave and never fucking come back,” he tries again, but his downturned features are almost melted by Dylan's soft ones, and all he can think about is how disappointed Aron is going to be in him.

“Yeah, you could,” Dylan replies, and then he laughs. “ _But,_ you know, you could also stay. With or without Aron.”

And Jorel just peers up at him, sighs, because he knows he’s going to give in, because nothing else really matters to him besides the band, besides the next album they’d been talking about recording, besides the concerts where it’s the two of them, gazing at each other, singing each line and playing each chord to each other like the only things that exist in the world are them and that shitty stage.

“Well... I guess you guys would be pretty shit without me,” Jorel finally jokes, resigned, and Dylan's grin only brightens, and it’s infectious, and J-Dog can only mirror it, laugh softly.

“Yeah, see? Stay. Stay and make music with us.”

And Jorel knows he _can’t_ , knows he’s not drunk enough yet, knows it’s not even that late, knows he won’t be able to come up with a good excuse to get him out of this one, but he can’t help himself from leaning in, pressing the softest of kisses to Dylan's lips. Dylan freezes for a short moment, and J-Dog almost bails, and he’s convincing himself that it’s a good thing that he’s fucked everything up, that now he can leave the band without protest, before Dylan's kissing him back, and melting into him, hands holding loosely on either of Jorel's arms.

“Is that a _yes_?” Funny finally questions, breaks the silence, and Jorel can only laugh, and his fingers are playing with Dylan's hair now, gently running through the curls.

His eyes meet Dylans, once more, and he's looking at Jorel expectantly, like he’s waiting for it, _I'd follow you anywhere,_ and he goes to say it, _I'd follow you anywhere if that meant I'd never lose you_ , but then nerves suddenly get the better of him, and he casts his gaze down, for a moment, and whatever spell he was put under by Dylan's warm gaze is broken, and he wants to kick himself as he laughs.

**“Yes, it’s a _yes_.”**

* * *

**AMERICAN TRAGEDY.**

~~**“I'd say you feel the same, if only I knew what I'm feeling.”** ~~

The album is finally finished, the others left the studio about thirty minutes ago, and the clock reads some time past two thirty. And they should really go to sleep already, but they can’t stop grinning at each other, grins that hadn’t left their features since Danny had agreed to replace Aron in the band. Their second album is done, finished, finally, and it’s like neither of them could be any more prouder of it, and it’s like all the past years, staying up past four in the morning have all finally culminated in something, and it’s everything they wanted it to be, and it’s perfect.

They’re dancing now, the record almost halfway run through for the probably hundredth time that night, and they’re doing some drunken version of a waltz, one of Dylan's arms slung over Jorel's shoulder, and one of Jorel's arms wrapped tight around Dylan's waist, and their other hands are held out to the side, fingers entwined. They’re so drunk they’re barely moving, just swaying gently to the music, and they keep stumbling, which only makes them hold each other tighter, laugh, try to keep each other upright.

Funny Man's head is pressed against J-Dog's shoulder, and he’s singing along to _Coming Back Down_ as it plays softly in the background. It gets to Jorel's part, and he lifts his head to meet his gaze, drunken grin bright on his features as he starts to rap in the most absurd mock-Jorel voice, and J-Dog almost instantly bursts out laughing, shoves Funny gently, as not to send them both toppling over. “Oh, shut up, you dumbass.”

They’re drunk, wasted out of their minds, so it’s fine, so Jorel can lean in, kiss Dylan softly, because even if they remember this tomorrow, which they probably won’t, they were just drunk, just high off the excitement of releasing the album, just celebrating a bit too hard. They stumble backwards until Jorel falls back onto the couch, until Dylan tumbles easily next to him, kiss only breaking so they can laugh softly, noses bumping against each other, and J-Dog is faintly aware of the songs rolling over, _Coming Back Down_ fading out so _Bullet_ can start.

Jorel leans down, kisses Dylan sweetly, too tender to be some heated makeout session, and their hands are still entwined, and Dylan presses Jorel's hand against his waist as J-Dog's other arm goes to wrap around the other side of him, pull him in closer by the small of his back, and Funny's own free hand finds a hold on Jorel's shoulder, steadies himself on it as he presses impossibly closer to Jorel, kisses him so softly.

Dylan tastes like cherry cola. Like purple popsicles mixed with the undoubtful faint taste of marijuana. Like too sweet coffee, first thing in the morning, or a wad of pink bubblegum after dinner that he'll spit out on the ground before joining the others at rehearsal. He's not that much younger than Jorel, but for some reason there's nothing like this secondhand hit of artificial fruit flavour to make him feel like a dirty old man.

He pulls away for a moment, to gaze at Dylan, and his eyes are just filled with adoration, and Dylan is looking back at him just the same way, and he can’t even hear whatever song is playing anymore because all he can hear is the sound of blood rushing in his ears as he kisses him again.

 _You probably feel the same way_ , he thinks, could say it and Dylan probably wouldn’t even remember, hell, Jorel probably wouldn’t even remember, a soft _Do you feel the same way?_ murmured to fill the silence, to accompany the way he’s staring at Dylan like he’s the stars, and the sun, and all the planets too, like he’s the whole universe, like he really, truly, knows what he's feeling. But he doesn't. He'd say it, ask him if he feels it, too, but he doesn't know what _it_ is. He opens his mouth.

**“You gonna restart the record?”**

* * *

**NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND.**

~~**“I want to spend the rest of my life like that, I don't want this moment to ever end.”** ~~

It's the last week of _The Underground Tour_ and they're in the bus alone, and Jorel _really_ thinks they shouldn't be left alone, and it's such a terrible idea, but he's still here. Funny Man stirrs on the uncomfortable leather couch in the back of the bus, fast asleep, dreaming something vivid that makes his hands shake and his body twist. J-Dog, sitting on the same couch with his laptop, glances at the man beside him and sighs. He turns off the shitty LED lights and settles back to get a better view of his friend.

He starts humming the tune of _Rain_ , simply because it's the first thing that pops into his head. In the beginning he has to stop from time to time, to get comfortable with the volume and varying pitch, but after a while he just rolls with it, humming every melody that crosses his mind, spinning a little medley of all their old and new songs he can think about, eventually catching himself sing some happy radio jingle he's heard so many times, and the warmth, the sound and the man next to him make him absolutely lose himself in this safe place. In this overwhelming feeling of home.

He sighs again, eyes glued to the ceiling, but he still sees Dylan's face; sees him leaning into Jorel's side at the soundcheck last week, sees him smiling and laughing yesterday at the supermarket, sees him grabbing his hand at the last concert. He sees the sparkle in his dark eyes, the kind he pretends not to notice but definitely does. He still sees Dylan's hands and the way they shook ever so slightly when they reached to pull on J-Dog's shirt. He tries so hard not to, but he sees Funny kiss him, a wet mess of alcohol and spit pressed against his lips.

Jorel feels bad that the kiss sent him reeling. But it's all it took to get him thinking about _real_ dates with Dylan. He thinks about going to dinner and holding hands under the table. He thinks of movie dates, the two of them sat in the back of the theatre, not paying attention to the show at all. Both of those thoughts make his stomach flutter. Both of them make him feel _sick_. What makes him even sicker is the thought that maybe, just maybe, if he loved — if he was naive enough to be able to — he thinks he would love Dylan.

His thoughts are interrupted by Funny Man rolling over, sidling up to him and sighing with contentment. He freezes and holds his breath and absolutely does _not_ think about leaning into the warmth of his body and wrapping his arms around Funny, or placing the smallest of kisses on his forehead, or even _worse_ , kissing him for real until he wakes up. Because that wouldn’t be fair. Because they're simply not meant to be.

Dylan doesn't wake up when Jorel stands up to get his charger, doesn't wake up when Jorel puts a blanket over him or when the bus stops. He _does_ , however, jolt awake to the sound of either a fire alarm, air raid siren, or, more realistically, just Jorel's alarm.

“You bastard, why do you even keep that thing on? Who the fuck wakes up at five?” he complains and J-Dog snorts in response.

They sit in silence for a while, and Jorel can't help but stare at Dylan's soft features, the way his curly hair stick out in every direction, his upset expression and small smile. He wants to say it, wants to whisper, _I want to spend the rest of my life like that_ , because the only thing he'd like to see before his death is Dylan waking up in his bed, messy hair and shining eyes, _I don't want this moment to ever end_.

**“Get more sleep, you still look tired.”**

* * *

**DAY OF THE DEAD.**

~~**“The longer I look at you, the deeper my feelings get, so I look away.”** ~~

They’re playing _Gravity_ , and it feels like every time they play is the first, no matter how many times they actually have, and _Day Of The Dead_ is finally out, so they have every right to be excited, jittery, bright grins always unwavering as they're on the stage, and it’s grounding, almost, as the stage lights disorient. Danny's laughing as Charlie keeps cracking his stupid jokes while Matt just ignores them jokingly, and George is quiet in between songs, as always, but Jorel doesn’t mind, lets him fiddle with his bass guitar for an extra moment, lifts his gaze every so often to beam up at Funny as he giggles into the microphone.

Every time they play together they get lost in it, truly, like they’re the only people in the world, like all that matters is them, and Dylan and Jorel are gazing at each other, grins overwhelming their features as they both lean closer, closer, until the only thing between them is the microphone, as they look at each other with such adoration as they sing, and they’re singing to each other, not to the crowd. J-Dog's voice so truly genuine as he sings out that he can't stop thinking about the past, grins at Dylan with it, and he can only grin back.

He realizes he’s been staring for just a moment too long when Funny Man turns to him during Danny's part and asks him something he definitely doesn’t catch over the sound of his own pulse thrumming in his ears. He murmurs something vaguely dismissive, not even registering his own response as he sighs softly, wishing he could simply have more of this.

And when they get to the end of the song they’re hovering there, frozen in a moment in time, and the crowd is cheering, but Jorel can’t hear it, can only hear the way his heart pounds in his chest as he looks at Dylan. And the words are there, caught in his throat all over again, _I look at you and my feelings only get deeper_. And he opens his mouth, finally, goes to say it, _My feelings only get deeper_ , forces a soft noise from his throat, and then Funny turns back towards the microphone. The moment is shattered, and Jorel comes crashing down to earth much too hard. He looks away.

It takes a while; it takes a while for him to stop shaking, collect his own thoughts, make sure that's what he wants to say, but, in the end, he finally does.

**“Vanessa, will you marry me?”**

* * *

**FIVE.**

~~**“You could be the only person in my life and I'd never feel lonely.”**~~

Jorel's not really sure if he should say something, not sure if he should move, not sure if he should leave, and just talk to Funny Man later or if that would make him feel worse. _It would probably make him feel worse._ He knows he can't bring himself to strike up the conversation the next morning, when his loneliness has subsided and Dylan's mind is no longer clouded by the high from the blunt between his fingers. He knows the cycle would continue.

They always smoke in silence.

The city looks nice like this. The warm, euphoric feeling you get when you see or hear or do something that makes you feel on top of the world floods Jorel and, for a split second, his chest isn't entrapped with hurt. It's the feeling he’s convinced himself only happens in nanoseconds and when the hurt comes back moments later, he’s disappointed again. _California Dreaming_ , still unfinished, plays in the background, and he thinks it's almost ironic. It makes the whole situation way more nostalgic, not in the pleasant way.

He doesn't say anything, he already knows what's on Dylan's mind when he sees his shoulders tense, he's already pulling Dylan's shaking body into his chest as the younger buries his face into his neck. Funny is a quiet cryer, maybe intentionally. He can't remember the last time Dylan let himself cry in front of someone. J-Dog can feel tears wetting his skin and his old shirt and holds Funny, but, aside from the sharp inhales, he's sure Funny's trying not to be heard. 

He knows he should say something. But he doesn't. _Because they always smoke in silence._

The two of them sit there for a few minutes before Dylan gets restless, pulling his body off of Jorel's, slumping and looking down at his tattooed hands. Not really sure what to say, he nudges J-Dog's arm with his own, offering the blunt between his fingers to him.

Jorel takes it. Lately, he only smokes with Dylan on nights like these, when he’s too in his own mind. Funny Man's gaze is seeping into him, scanning their face like an x-ray as he puts the blunt to his lips and inhales. Then Jorel passes the blunt back to him, kissing his neck before standing up. The high is starting to melt in, slowly. He murmurs that he'll have to go soon and Dylan doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

He hears the thunder outside, and, even after all these years, he still likes the rain. It's a little sad, like an aching for someone he'll never have, but it’s never sharp. It's a soft ache. It’s a gentle, tender ache that tugs at him, reminding him of the easier days. It turns the sky and the city and everything with color to darkness. The younger man is the one to bring little touches of his own to his life — even on days like this, when they're just lost in their thoughts, looking through the window of Jorel's apartment, getting high off shitty weed — little sparks of color here and there, like sunshine after a storm. Dylan is the sun, Jorel's sure.

“Do you ever— Do you ever feel like you're completely alone in this world?”

Dylan's voice comes out as a whisper, weak and hoarse. Jorel knows what he means. He doesn't know how or why, but the moment their eyes meet, he's sure that he just knows. He wants to tell him that he does, he does every day, because he's missing something that never existed. That he'd never feel lonely again if only he had Dylan, just Dylan, nobody else. _You could be the only person in my life_ , he wants to say, _and I'd never feel lonely._ He holds Funny's gaze as he opens his mouth and lowers his gaze.

**“There are lots of people out there.”**

* * *

**NEW EMPIRE.**

~~**“I love you.”** ~~

It’s late — too late, Jorel notes, as he glances at the clock, well past three in the morning, but he could care less, honestly, and Dylan doesn’t seem to mind much either, as he, in his drunken voice, serenades J-Dog, changes the lyrics to _Ghost Out_ , which they’d spent hours trying to perfect, to some stupid Disney love song, goofy grin countered by the way his brows furrow in concentration as he tries to come up with the next line, and he’s singing something about Jorel's eyes when Jorel, laughing, shoves Dylan's arm a little too hard, murmurs something that sounds like _shut up, you dumbass_ , before he’s cutting him off, pressing a kiss to his lips.

Dylan makes an annoyed noise, like he’s frustrated at Jorel for cutting off his singing, like he wasn’t just trying to get Jorel to kiss him, but when he pulls away, just for a moment, he frowns so dramatically, and it’s enough to make J-Dog laugh, again, drunkenly, let himself get pulled into another kiss, easy.

They’re drunk — too drunk, and they both know they’re not gonna remember this in the morning, that when they fall asleep, wake up tangled in each others arms the next morning that they’re going to jump apart in a panic, that they’re going to tiptoe around each other for the morning, that things are going to feel strange, stranger than it's been for the past fifteen years, until Dylan does something stupid enough to get Jorel to forget about it, or until he picks an argument — but they both know they’re never going to talk about it.

 _It makes moments like these all so fleeting,_ Jorel thinks, as he lets Dylan loop his arms over his shoulders, as he forgets he’s holding onto the guitar sandwiched between them, lets go to pull Dylan in closer, as they both bounce apart in a panic when the guitar flies off J-Dog's lap, lands on the floor with a cartoonish twang, as Funny buries his head in J-Dog's chest in a fit of laughter, once the panic and surprised drains from both of their features, Jorel's arms wrapping around his waist proper, now. They wouldn’t just have to do this when they’re drunk, or exhausted, Jorel knows, if he wasn’t such a coward, if he could admit his feelings without being out of his mind.

Jorel doesn’t have time to start beating himself up, though, because Dylan is kissing him again, and maybe it’s just the alcohol, or maybe it’s him, but all he can suddenly process is Dylan, name repeated over and over in his head, the way Dylan's arms hold tight around his neck.

“Dyl” Jorel starts, breathes out between kisses, and Dylan breathes out an equally soft _“Yeah, Jay?”_ , and J-Dog gets lost in so quickly he forgets what he was going to say, and he doesn’t know how long they sit like that, Funny Man gazing up at him in awe, almost, before he laughs, grins so brightly Jorel thinks he’s going to start seeing sun spots from looking directly at it, before he leans in, kisses him, snaps him out of his trance.

Dylan is the sun, Jorel's sure, or a burning star, and he's never known much about space, not one for all that science shit, but he’s so sure Dylan is the sun — or just the living embodiment of the word _warm_ , like putting on a soft sweater, like sipping a mug of hot cocoa, like sitting on a window seat while the sun pours through the blinds, all at once, and Jorel wants to melt in it, wants to cling to it until Dylan defrosts him. He knows Dylan would let him if he asked.

He’s not going to ask.

He doesn’t know what time it is now, can’t see the clock, doesn’t know how much time has passed, perception more warped than normal, but he knows it's late, or early, he supposes, because he can see the sun rise through cracked blinds behind Dylan's head, and he wouldn’t be so tempted to go to sleep, truly, if only he wasn’t shifting until he laid flat across the couch, if he wasn’t pulling Dylan down atop his chest, if arm wasn’t holding so tight over his shoulders, effectively trapping him. He can’t help but frown, truly, Funny's head pressed against his chest, even as he tilts his head forward to press a kiss to Funny's temple, even as his hand goes to run though his hair, slowly, tiredly, because he knows as soon as they wake this will be over, all of it, until the next time they get drunk, until the cycle repeats itself.

And he lifts his head to say something, finally, _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ , while he still has the courage, get everything off his chest, _I love you,_ but Dylan is already snoring.

**“I love you.”**


End file.
